It is a very genial, evocative tale, one I would thrill to losing myself in if only the real world did not keep intruding.
The bulk of the book is taken directly from the journal the then-twenty-three year old Steves kept on his journey. I also packed a journalβa hard-bound empty book ready to collect all my travel memories. I was determined to chronicle the trip, grabbing a stream-of-consciousness-parade of impressions, and I didβwriting a thousand words a day.
After the trip, this journal was packed away, never read Then, stuck at home during the pandemic, I stumbled across it. And as if on an anthropological dig into my own past, I entered the world of year-old me and relived my coming-of-age trip. Steves, who had traveled a lot already in Europe and usually finished those trips in Istanbul, decided to take a deeper dive into the city, as it now was not the end of a European adventure, but the beginning of something very different.
I laughed out loud at his visit to a traditional Turkish haman, or bathhouse, as it reminded me very much of my own. The warmth and relaxation of lying on the huge circular slab of heated stone was delightful, but oh, that massageβ¦! I prayed that my joints would all survive. Then with a loud slap in my chest, he landed on me like a beast and worked me over good. He was a credit to his gender.
Smashing and stretching each of my tight muscles, I was in lovely pain. It hurt but, in a strange way, I wanted itβjust with no lasting damage. Then came the joint stretching.
